Deliberation
by Sophia Jirafe
Summary: "Stupid--yes, stupid to think he wouldn't guess" (WARNING: NO CLASSIFICATION)


DELIBERATION  
By Sophia Jirafe  
sophia.jirafe@usa.net  
  
Distribution: Gossamer yes; others please ask.  
Disclaimer: Very slowly--not....mine.  
Rating: R  
Classification: None, for the sake of the story  
Summary: "Stupid--yes, stupid to think he wouldn't guess."  
  
--  
  
She's sorry she ever started this. This--this incredible horror of a wrong   
step, this nightmare of stupidity, this terrible outrage against her own best  
interests. She isn't a foolish woman--why does she persist in acting like one?  
  
Yesterday it seemed right. Maybe that was just because it was filtered through  
the haze that fills her mind these days, maybe because she was just too tired  
to fight herself, maybe just because she was lonely and cold and sick of   
sitting alone at night.  
  
Mistakes seem to be the currency of her life.   
  
She needs this but she doesn't want it. She wants it but doesn't need it.   
Either way, some part of the puzzle isn't fitting, something that she   
overlooked in her grim fierce dreams yesterday has come back to haunt her   
and hurt her.   
  
It's love, she thinks. She's short on love.  
  
--  
  
She thinks she could fall in love with him just for the way he catches her   
tears and brushes her hair from her forehead. The motions are gentle and   
assured--he is a man who will drink tears and swallow sorrow without ever   
showing it, yet he understands the pain of others. She could love him for   
that too, the sweet tolerance of a kind man who loves and does not pity   
those weaker than himself. She could go away with him forever to a tranquil   
life just because he kisses her on the lips instead of the forehead when he   
soothes her.  
  
She could love him, if she hadn't been buried alive.  
  
Unable to look at him, she lies curled on her side, the soft brush of his   
fingers on her cheek a drowsy comfort as tears slide to the pillow, leaving   
cold wet traces on her skin. She shivers a little under the sheet he has   
covered her mostly nude body with, but doesn't dare to ask for a blanket,   
knowing that her trembling voice will bring on another terrifying rush of   
weeping. She flinches from the thought of that storm, that dark place where   
only one voice reaches her. The voice she can't bear to hear, knowing she'll   
never hear it again in life.   
  
His voice.  
  
Her breathing calms, slowly. He drops his hand from her face and lies down   
next to her, putting an arm over her ribcage with the gentleness she never   
suspected in him.   
  
"Are you cold?" he whispers quietly, rubbing her back.  
  
Not trusting her voice, she nods a little against the bed.  
  
"Let me get you a blanket."  
  
He sits up, fumbling for the down comforter they pushed to the floor in   
their haste just minutes ago. Then he lies down again, drawing soft warmth   
with him, and settles his arm over her. She almost wishes he would draw her   
close so that she might bury her face against him, bringing on darkness and   
oblivion. She wants drugs, alcohol, a blow to the head, anything that will   
make her forget the last hour of her life.   
  
She's been drawn to him because she doesn't think she can break him. She's   
imagined beating herself against the solid wall of him, losing herself in   
the padded cell of his strength. He doesn't know her well enough to take her   
all in, to care about the hairline fractures and delicate bruises she's   
accumulated over the years. She knows he can't see her third dimension yet,   
and has only comfort and tenderness to offer her, not knowing that she is   
broken.  
  
He is not the sort of man she can use in the way she is accustomed to using   
men. He won't play her game, won't turn away from the imposing barriers she   
sets up or be awestruck when she lets him past them. He is not impressed by   
being in her confidence, or afraid of being out of it. He is simply there,   
waiting for her whether she hates him or welcomes him in.   
  
She knows she will never find forgetfulness in his arms. He's no missing   
half, no lonely soul waiting for completion. He doesn't despise her for   
needing comfort, nor does he want her to return the favor. She can't ever   
imagine having this quiet patience with him, or wiping away his pain.   
  
She can't imagine loving a man who doesn't need her.  
  
--  
  
She wakes up and wishes she hadn't. Curled in an awkward position, stiff   
pain cramps her neck as she raises her head from his shoulder. For the first   
time in her life, she wishes she didn't have the capacity for total morning   
recall, no matter what drunken escapades have preceded her awakening on the   
couch, in the car, on the floor of her brother's roommate's best friend's   
cousin's house.   
  
Stone sober in her own bed spooned up with her partner like a pair of goddamn   
lovebirds.  
  
He's watching her, and she can tell by the intensity of his gaze as she sits   
up that he has been for a while. She isn't surprised that he's an early   
riser, only surprised that he hasn't left by now. She stares back at him for   
a moment, then drops her eyes to take in her own nudity, the newly full   
breasts and delicate abdominal swell which shot it all to hell last night.   
  
Stupid--yes, stupid to think he wouldn't guess, that a man trained to   
observe wouldn't have seen her secret in less than the ten shocked seconds   
it took him.   
  
Far more foolish to have misunderstood him so completely, to have failed to   
understand those qualities which drew her in the first place. He's a man of   
the old standards, a decent man who would never hesitate to comfort his   
sobbing partner, naked or not, but draws the line at sleeping with her when   
another man's name is so clearly written on her very body.  
  
She turns away awkwardly and fumbles on the floor for her robe, remembering   
the look in his eyes last night as she bared her secret to him. Their kisses   
were fast and melting, as if one or the other might stop at any time,   
replacing rhythm with reason. She remembers pulling his shirt off with   
fierce desperation, hoping to get it over and done with before she began to   
cry. His face--passion turning his sharp eyes dim, hands taking her measure,   
learning her curves before she can push him away.   
  
She remembers the sudden silence, his gaze sweeping over her smooth, naked   
abdomen beneath him, and the betrayal in his eyes as they met hers. She   
realized, in that moment, what a cruel trick this was to play on him. He is   
still whole, still untouched by the flames which have burned her away to   
nothing but essentials, and deception is not necessary to him yet. He must   
have guessed before, she told herself, and knew from the way he turned from   
her that this is the one thing he's been willing to pretend about. She means   
that much to him.  
  
The fact that he is still here, comforting and caring for her, is what   
shames her as she wraps the robe around herself. He should be gone by now,   
off to nurse the slap in the face she's given him, to prepare himself to   
give her a professional smile on Monday.   
  
I fooled you, she thinks. Don't give me the benefit of the doubt. I did it   
on purpose.  
  
Shutting the bathroom door behind her, she turns the hot water tap on as   
high as it will go, and steps in the water, which is just a few degrees shy   
of scalding. She closes her eyes and imagines herself stripped of skin, her   
old life burned away as flesh melts from bone. She sees a bone cage, a   
trapped grieving heart and a fatherless child. She imagines crawling into   
her own womb, sharing a landscape of blooming black flowers and soft sounds   
with the child who deserves a mother who doesn't make mistakes.  
  
--  
  
By the time she is clean and dry, facing him no longer seems such an   
impossible task. The error hangs clear between them, both equally at fault.   
She remembers last night, gritting her teeth and seducing him over lasagna   
and overcooked asparagus, he leaning over her as she washed the plates. She   
tricking herself into wanting his warm breath and hard muscles against her.   
  
The whole thing seems so ridiculous, she nearly smiles as she opens the door.   
The bedroom is empty, and she feels her hard-won composure shudder as she   
directs a confused glance around the room. His belt is still on the floor by   
the bed, though, and she hears the sound of dishes in the kitchen. She picks   
up the belt, takes a deep breath, and goes toward the living room.  
  
He's pulling down mugs for coffee, and the fact that he knows not to use the   
good china ones breaks her heart. He must have been married, she thinks,   
studying him from the doorway of the bedroom. He's too careful of her not to   
be, and careful of himself. No shaggy neglect there, and the way he treats   
her belies an understanding of women gleaned from more than a maternal   
relationship. A fine man, a good man, a wonderful catch.  
  
Not her catch.   
  
Clearing her throat, she walks into the kitchen and takes a mug, nodding at   
him. Their eyes meet briefly, and she realizes with infinite relief that he   
knows enough to say nothing. They wait on opposite sides of the counter for   
the coffee to perk, studying beige tile in almost amiable silence. He pours   
for her with unthinking chivalry, then gulps down four black swallows, and   
rinses out the mug in the sink.   
  
They have to look at each other now, because this is the last time they'll   
ever be this close without flinching. She stares into his eyes, trying to   
thank him without bending or breaking, without looking like she was in such   
desperate need of the comfort he has given her.   
  
She fails.  
  
He quirks a tiny smile at her, and she sees a world of promise drain away   
from her because she has been bound and made for one man only. The tears   
choke her again, and he moves towards her with open arms.  
  
She steps back quickly, turning her head to let the tears slide behind her   
hair. She brushes her wrist over her cheeks, and stretches a painful smile   
over her face.   
  
He extends a hand and she grasps it, never dropping her gaze from his face.   
Looking down, he finally speaks.  
  
"You'll find him," he says quietly. "Because you have to."  
  
He squeezes her hand and looks up at her. "And I'll be there for you."  
  
There's nothing in the world to say to him that isn't foolish, or meaningless,  
or cruel, or useless. She nods.  
  
He drops her hand after a moment, and turns to leave. She holds the door as   
he goes out, and suddenly puts a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Thank you, John," she whispers, and shuts the door.  
  
--  
  
Notes: Thanks to Diana and EPur, for lifesaving beta, and Sabine, for the   
initial encouraging read-through.   
  
This and more at http://www.dreamwater.com/mcaact/maren.html  



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